


That's Show Business

by AlleiraDayne



Series: Bang Your Head (Metal Health) [24]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Bands, Gen, Modern Era, Modern Thedas, Music, Touring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 18:40:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7585615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlleiraDayne/pseuds/AlleiraDayne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amallia reaches out to her cousin Isobel "Trev" Trevelyan to help APOSTATES! book a gig at the famous Palace hall on Lake Calenhad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That's Show Business

**Author's Note:**

> Fic/art swap for @captainceranna on tumblr.

“I’m sorry, honey, I’ve got a full plate right now. Don’t you know any managers through the studio?”

Isobel strode away, long legs rounding the clothing rack, and Amallia followed a step behind. The racks were packed so close together in the tiny boutique, she wondered how anyone managed to navigate the place. 

“Please, Trev?” she began, stuttering as she shuffled between racks. “We’re in a … a pretty tough bind, I’ve got a venue looking to book us but they don’t want to work with any of the band members. They’ll only deal with a manager.”

“And like I said,” the red-headed woman responded, holding up a jewel-toned shirt, billowy and loose. “I’m busy. Seriously, use your friends at the studio.”

Maker, but the woman was stubborn. Gritting her teeth, Amallia steadied herself. She didn’t want the request to come down to a favor, but she was ready to play that card now.

“Nobody at the studio is legally allowed to take us on as a group,” she explained. “Besides, you _owe_ me. Just do me this one solid and we’ll be even.”

Isobel’s flat look could have worn rust off a bumper, but Amallia wasn’t about to back down. She knew that look, was all too familiar with it and wouldn’t let her cousin shove her off with nothing but an excuse.

“Please. We need this gig,” she continued. “It’ll be our first show since we recorded our own album, and records aren’t exactly flying off the shelves. It could help boost sales and we could turn a profit on tickets.”

That deflated her some, a sigh letting the wind out of her sails. “Let me sleep on it,” she muttered as she considered another shirt. “I want to help you, but I don’t want to get stuck being your permanent manager.”

Amallia shook her head and waved her off. “It’s a one-time deal. I have someone lined up for the future, but not until she straightens out her affairs in Orlais first.”

Curiosity raised an inquisitive brow as Isobel regarded her from the corner of her eye. “Orlais, hm? Who is she? Someone I know?”

“A good friend, someone I’ve worked with a few times, now,” Amallia explained. “Her name is Vivienne.”

“Vivienne? As in Vivienne _De Fer?_ _The_ Vivienne De Fer?”

Amallia searched the clothing rack for an answer, failing to understand. “Is there something I’m missing?”

Isobel shook her head with a sarcastic frown. “Oh, _no_ , not at all, she’s only one of the most ruthless defense lawyers in Orlais. Maybe in all of Thedas,” she said with an even more sarcastic laugh.

“That was _years_ ago, Trev,” Amallia huffed with a roll of her eyes. “Like I said, she’s straightening a few things out in Orlais over the next four or five weeks, then heading here. Until then, can you try to get is this gig?”

With a grimace, Isobel shoved the shirt she was considering back in its place, then looked to her with a wry smile. “Let me think about it. I’ll call you tomorrow?”

She supposed that would have to do. “Alright. What are we doing here, by the way? These shirts cost more than parts for my car …”

“Shopping. You should try it more often,” Isobel jested.

Amallia snorted. “I do shop. At places I can afford. Look at this!” she shouted as she snatched a tiny dress from the rack. Shaking it at her cousin, she continued, “I have five dresses that don’t add up to the cost of this one. And it’s got half the fabric of one dress! I don’t think it would even cover my ass …”

“Mal, love, I’ve seen your wardrobe,” Isobel continued but her tone softened such that Amallia no longer felt as if she was judging her. “You could use a few high fashion items. One or two wouldn’t cripple your finances.”

A bright mint green sun dress stuck out from a rack and Amallia plucked at it. “What, like this? I have one already. I’m pretty sure I have one of every article of clothing in this place,” she lamented, looking the boutique once over for something she may have missed.

And then she spotted it. A necklace on a nearby table caught her eye, the thin leather thong looped through a small yet heavy metallic pendant. The crest of the Inquisitor shown under the lamplight, glinting as she approached.

“Now _this_ ,” she started, “Is something I definitely do not have.”

Isobel followed, stopping beside her as she reached the table. When she spotted the pendant, her face contorted in disapproval. “That is the opposite of what I’m talking about,” she murmured.

“Too bad, I’m getting it. Besides, it’s not for me,” Amallia huffed as she darted passed the taller woman, and Isobel laughed loudly as she followed.

* * *

The handset clicked on the base as Isobel set it down with a sigh. Andraste’s _knickers_ , what was she doing? She had loads of other clients to deal with, and yet, Amallia needed her help. It wasn’t as if the situation was permanent. Vivienne would take over in six weeks and _APOSTATES!_ was only looking to book one venue in that span.

Except that one venue was the largest in southwestern Ferelden, located on the shores of Lake Calenhad, and booked for months.

 _The_ _Palace_.

She knew people in Orlais and the Free Marches. And she even had a few contacts in Denerim, but the whole of Ferelden? A list of names tumbled through her head, each one rattling off an owed favor. If her spider web of entertainers, managers, and socialites did not net her this gig, she’d leave the business. They didn’t call her Trev the Queen for nothing.

When she contacted the Palace first, the woman on the other end offered to take a message for the contact Amallia had provided. Ms. Nightingale was, it seemed, an extremely busy woman and couldn’t afford to take a phone call for a prospective show.

That did not bode well. Isobel buckled in for a long afternoon of phone tag. With the first number dialed in and ringing, she stood from her corner desk and began to pace her office.

* * *

“Trev,” Amallia said with a smile she could hear over the phone. “Good news, I hope.”

Isobel sighed. “No news, I’m afraid. Ms. Nightingale has proven to be an elusive creature.”

“Oh,” Amallia replied, and she could picture her smiling fading. “That’s … normal, I guess. She’s busy. Important. Might take a few days. Didn’t expect you to get it right away.”

She had. Isobel scowled as she retrieved a glass from a cupboard and the bottle from the counter. She knew the business inside and out; it never took her more than a day to book a gig and it never took her more than a few phone calls to get in touch with the right people. But it seemed her lack of contacts in the area were proving to be an insurmountable problem.

“Piss on that, I should have had it done,” she spat. “If only I could have just _talked_ to the woman.”

The glass filled as she poured a crisp, golden wine, then set the bottle down and scooped up the glass to return to her living room. When Amallia didn’t respond for a moment, it occurred to Isobel that something wasn’t quite right. As she sat on the couch, she spoke.

“You’re holding your breath again.”

A burst of air muddled the sound for a brief second before Amallia spoke. “Sorry. I’m … worried. That’s all.”

Isobel nodded as if she could see her. “I’m sorry. But you needn’t, it’s unnecessary. I’ll get us this gig, promise.”

“Thanks, Trev. You’re a—”

“Queen. I know.”

* * *

Weeks past. The deadline to book the show loomed and Isobel was no closer than she had been the day she’d agreed to help Amallia. And when she had to give her cousin the same update once more, nothing felt closer to defeat than the disappointed sigh she heard on the other end of the line.

“It’s fine, Trev. You tried,” Amallia said. “It was a bit of a pipe dream anyway. We’ve got plenty of gigs booked at the Herald’s in town. Maybe we’ll find something else.”

Isobel slammed her fist on her desk as she stood. “No. I will get you this gig, Void take me if I don’t.”

“Please don’t stress over this,” Amallia chided. “I can’t stand knowing I put you up to this and now it’s driving you mad.”

She scoffed in dismissal, eager to get back to work. “Trust me, Mal.”

* * *

Two nights before the deadline, Isobel lay awake in bed. The glowing green light of the clock on the nightstand flashed to 12:13 AM, and she counted the seconds as they continued to tick by. Her mind would not stop spinning, the gears churning as she tried to think of another way, another person she might have missed, just one more phone call she could make in the morning.

Somewhere amongst the forest of names, she dozed off, sleep finding her at last. A distant buzz permeated the wards of her slumbering mind, easing its way in until it found a chink in the armor. There it slammed home, waking her with a jolt, and Isobel flew from her bed before she realized her phone was ringing.

The green glow of the clock showed 2:02 AM. Who would be calling her at this unholy hour? She picked the device up from the table and swiped across the screen with her thumb, the blocked number reading _Private_.

“Hello?”

“Is this …” the voice trailed off, a lilting Orlesian accent, “Ms. Isobel?”

“This is,” she replied, a twinge of caution coloring her voice. “Who is this?”

“I apologize for the late hour, Ms. Isobel. This is Ms. Nightingale. You’re the band manager for Apostates, correct?”

The fog of sleep cleared in an instant and her feet moved of their own accord. Pacing the length of her room, Isobel pondered her response a moment. She always felt better thinking on her feet. Literally. Quick wit and fast logic were easier to find as she moved, questions rebuffed with answers as they presented themselves in her slow stroll.

When Isobel confirmed she was indeed the band manager for _APOSTATES!_ , Ms. Nightingale spoke again.

“Excellent. I would like to meet you. In person.”

Isobel stopped in the center of her room, brow furrowed. The situation was growing stranger by the second. “Alright,” she began, still cautious. “When would you like to meet?”

An uncomfortable silence stretched and Isobel had half a mind to hang up until she heard Ms. Nightingale breath.

“Can you meet now?”

For a second, she though the woman might be joking, testing her. Isobel glared at the clock again as she thought of Amallia, then growled to herself.

“Ms. Isobel? I understand the hour is quite –”

“Where?” she interrupted.

* * *

 

Amallia stared across the table at her cousin and wondered if she was ill. When lunch arrived – _Maker_ , it was early for lunch – Isobel dug into her meal with haste.

“Trev,” she started, “What’s going on?”

The other woman paused, mouth full and brow quirking up. “Noffing.”

“Did you sleep alright?” she continued. “I hope you’re not stressing about this gig …”

The waitress returned with fresh glasses of water as Isobel shook her head in disagreement.

“No, not at all,” she began as she turned to her bag and dug through it. “In fact, quite the opposite.”

What little appetite Amallia had fled, fingers and toes turning to ice as Isobel slid a small note across the table. Her tidy script flowed across the paper, showing a date and time.

“What is this?” she asked, fearing to hope.

Isobel gave her a flat look. “What do you think it is?”

Amallia looked about the diner, hoping no one paid them any mind. It was a blessing in disguise that they were in public, and it dawned on Amallia then that Isobel had planned it that way on purpose. A rush of excitement welled up in her chest, coursing through her veins. Heart racing and breath rapid, she struggled to string more than three words together.

“Is this it?” she asked.

“I got you the gig,” Isobel replied.

She could have screamed. Isobel had come through like she said she would and with spectacular style. Amallia looked to the note again to confirm it was real, not quite believing that their biggest show to date was …

“Andraste’s _tits_ , it’s _tomorrow_?!” Amallia shouted. “Trev?! What am I supposed to do?! The show is _tomorrow night?!”_

“Mal,” she began, pointing at her with a fry before she ate it. “ _That’s_ show business. I’ve seen bands jump on bills at the last minute _all_ the time. If you want any kind of reputation in this industry, it’s that. Flexible, amenable, and able to fill in a spot at the eleventh hour.”

“Sorry,” she muttered. “I’m not trying to be ungrateful. Got a lot of work to do over the next couple hours.”

“Well?” Isobel asked, leaving the question unfinished.

Yes, she deserved a thank-you. She deserved far more than a thank-you; she deserved three months’ salary and at least a month’s worth of that Antivan coffee she drank to survive. She made a mental note to ask Amodisia for a few shipments. It was her contact after all.

“Thank you, Trev. This …” she looked to the paper once more, “it means the world to me. I’ll make it up to you I swear.”

Isobel shook her head in disagreement. “No, no. Not necessary. Promise me one thing though?”

“Anything,” Amallia replied.

“Don’t book the Palace again, ever. That woman called me at 2 o’clock in the morning at made me get breakfast with her,” she replied.

Laughter bubbled up in her chest, unable to contain it. “Trev …”

“What?” she snapped.

“ _That’s show business_ ,” Amallia retorted.

Though Isobel’s glare was dark and brooding, Amallia knew that smirk at the corners of her lips and was laughing before her cousin spoke.

“Oh, shut it.”


End file.
